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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004306">The Innkeeper's Son</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus'>bluebacchus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>when you own the world you're always home [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Musketeers (2014), The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bathing/Washing, Enthusiastic Consent, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Revenge Plots, Rimming, Rough Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:21:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a small inn in the north of France with a reputation for discretion. Lucien Grimaud has heard of it, and stops for the night. </p><p>A Musketeers/Terror crossover where Thomas Jopson knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lucien Grimaud/Thomas Jopson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>when you own the world you're always home [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Innkeeper's Son</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts">onstraysod</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the combined inspiration of</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://oochilka.tumblr.com/image/612876543203704832">this piece of fanart by @oochilka</a></p><p> </p><p>and everything that @onstraysod and @lafiametta have written.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The inn lays a couple hours ride off the road between Douai and Lens. Travelers are few and far between, choosing instead to rest at the taverns that can be seen from the road. The English Rose Inn, then, has gained a reputation for being quiet, private, and discrete; a fine place for those wishing to avoid detection.</p><p>The proprietress speaks French with an English accent and English with a French accent, but she cooks a fine stew and only pours French wine for her lodgers. She is assisted only by her son, a young man who tends the horses in the stables and undertakes a fair share of both the maintenance and housekeeping duties. It is a fine inn, with scrubbed stone walls and ivy climbing up through the windows from the garden below. In the winter, the windows are covered with translucent skins from the Americas, but it is summer now, and Sarah Jopson sits alone inside, drinking a cup of wine from the cellar where it is cool and smells of earth. Thomas is outside, spreading water caught in the rain barrels over the path to stop the dust from rising like whirling tornadoes of grit.</p><p>It is he who notices the lone traveler in the distance. The sun beats hot on the dirt path that leads to the inn, and mirages paint the ground with puddles of water that disappear as the horse canters closer. Dust rises beneath its hooves and clings to the sweat on its body. The rider’s legs are as brown as his horse’s, covered with the same thick layer of dust from the road. He has been riding a long time.</p><p>Without a word from its master, the horse slows as it approaches the inn. Up close, Thomas can see that beneath the dust its coat is a deep chestnut colour. He is looking forward to tending to such a beautiful creature.</p><p>The gravel crunches as the horse’s rider dismounts. His traveling cloak is laden with grime, as is the hood pulled low over his brow.</p><p>“I seek shelter for the night,” the stranger says. His voice is low and rough and sends a shiver up Thomas’s spine.</p><p>“Yes,” he answers. “The proprietress is inside. I can take your horse, monsieur.”</p><p>The wind picks up, and the dust blows higher around Thomas’s knees. He reaches for the reins, only to find his arm batted away by the stranger’s leather-gloved hand.</p><p>“I’ll tend to my own horse.”</p><p>Thomas is taken aback. His services have never been rejected before.</p><p>“I can assure you he will be well cared for,” Thomas says. “And our stables are most secure—“</p><p>“I will tend to my own horse.”</p><p>“Very well,” Thomas says. It is a struggle to maintain composure against the traveler’s rudeness. “I will prepare you a room.”</p><p>The traveler nods, and leads his horse to the stables.</p><p> </p><p>He would be the first to admit that he has a tenuous relationship with his mother, but Thomas is still a good man and offers to handle the tenant’s lodgings to save his mother from the man’s ire. The room he chooses is sparse but clean, and the straw-filled mattress on the bed is covered by a woolen blanket that keeps the straw from poking through. Thomas hauls the wooden tub up the stairs and begins the arduous process of hauling buckets of boiling water up from the kitchen to fill the basin. He’s taking a break to check up on the pantry stores when he hears the low rumble of the traveler’s voice coming from the front of the inn. His mother’s clear voice rings out louder.</p><p>“I just need your signature here, monsieur,” she says. Thomas gets up, stands in the doorway where he has a clear view of the man. His dusty cloak is slung over his shoulder, though it is cooler inside the inn than outside. The front of a dark leather jerkin is exposed. Sun glints off the silver buckles that hold the sleeves in place. It isn’t his clothing that catches Thomas’s eye, however.</p><p>It’s the dangerous glint in his dark eyes; the line of the scar under his left eye; the way he sneers and tosses a jingling bag of gold on the table.</p><p>“I’ll pay you twice as much for no signature,” he says. Sarah nods and slips the bag into her belt. She catches Thomas’s eye.</p><p>“Thomas can show you to your room.”</p><p>The traveler’s eyes flicker towards him. They linger on his hips for a moment too long before he nods his assent and makes to follow.  </p><p> </p><p>“It’s just here, monsieur.” Thomas gestures at the door. “I was drawing a bath when you came in. I’m nearly done.”</p><p>The traveler says nothing. Thomas opens the door. The bath still steams in the centre of the room. The man sits on the wooden chair and crosses one booted foot over the other. He watches Thomas from under his brow.</p><p>Thomas boldly looks back. The man is handsome, incredibly so. His hair is equal parts greasy and dusty from the road, but it has a wave to it that Thomas would love to run his hands through. His mouth rests in a curl of disgust, but his eyes are alive underneath dark lashes. The scars on his face speak of battles lost and won, battles in places, perhaps, that Thomas has never seen. He finds himself growing aroused under the weight of the man’s gaze.</p><p>He waves a hand in Thomas’s direction.</p><p>“Go on, then. Fix me my bath,” he drawls.</p><p>Thomas flees back to the kitchen where things are simple.</p><p> </p><p>He draws four more buckets before he returns with soap and washcloths, each time avoiding eye contact and letting the traveler sit in the wooden chair and appraise him as he worked. When he is done, he offers to leave the cloths on the chair in which the man sits.</p><p>“Is this included in the price?”</p><p>It’s a strange question coming from the man who paid double the night’s fee to avoid leaving his name in the registry book, and Thomas is running out of patience.</p><p>“No, but I thought you were filthy enough to warrant a good scrub. I wouldn’t want you soiling my mother’s inn by tracking filth all over it.”</p><p>“Are you this charming with all of your customers?” He begins undressing, standing to unclasp his cloak; he lets it drop to the floor.</p><p>“I simply take pride in this establishment as a place of well repute.”</p><p>The man takes a step towards him, and Thomas can see that though they’re of the same height, the man seems to loom over him. He raises his chin defiantly.</p><p>The man looms ever closer until his nose is nearly pressed against Thomas’s own. He stands his ground, refusing to be intimidated. He has thrown bigger men out of the inn before, and he will do it again.</p><p>“Then you’ll be a dear and wash my cloak for me, won’t you?”</p><p>The smell of leather and sweat rolls off him in waves that go straight to Thomas’s head. He feels like he’s falling.</p><p>He finally steps sideways (not backward, never backward) to walk around the tub, bending to gather the traveler’s black cloak caked in mud and dust.</p><p>“I’ll leave you,” he says through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Monsieur Jopson,” the man adds with a glint of teeth that may be a smile, “will you return for the rest of my laundry?”</p><p>Thomas turns and marches out, face red with rising anger.</p><p> </p><p>He normally doesn’t mind doing the washing, but the insolence of the man upstairs has him scrubbing the fabric against the wash rack with such force that a more worn cloak would tear. The water is dark and murky by the time the cloak is clean but Thomas’s anger is far from abated. He scrubs at the folds of cloth until the water overflows, and each droplet of water hitting the stone floor echoes like a footstep. The blood pounds in his veins, and he scrubs and scrubs until the anger takes a rebellious turn and images of the traveler fill his mind: the traveler coming down the steps to see Thomas bent over on his knees; the glint of his teeth when he smirks; the way he would grab Thomas’s hips and pull them against his cock, hard within the constraints of his leather trousers; how Thomas would struggle because that’s what the man wants—what he expects—but he would be able to see with those cold, dark eyes that Thomas gives in far too quickly…</p><p>He shakes the thoughts away. It is a sordid fantasy, and one that should never see the light of day. Thomas hangs the cloak to dry and returns for the rest of the washing.</p><p> </p><p>He’s expecting the traveler to be soaking in the bath when he returns. But no, he is sitting in the exact same position as before, but now he cleans the dirt and blood from under his fingernails with a thin-bladed dagger.</p><p>“Is there a problem with your bathwater, <em>monsieur</em>?”</p><p>“I was hoping for the price I paid I would have a fine pair of hands to assist me. If you are as fastidious as you say, I welcome your help. As you have said, I am <em>quite </em>dirty.”</p><p>He’s looking at Thomas with his dark and dangerous eyes glittering, and the residual anger in Thomas’s belly gives way to hot, fiery lust.</p><p><em>This is who you’ve been waiting for,</em> he thinks. <em>He can help.</em> He’s not a soldier-- that is certain. A mercenary, perhaps? Or could he be the man Crozier warned him about in his last letter? The cruel and merciless man who appears on battlefields after the blood has seeped into the ground, surrounded by carrion like the crows that follow him? Thomas would think him a myth but for the trail of stolen goods that find themselves in Crozier’s stores in Nassau.</p><p><em>Be careful, Thomas,</em> Crozier had written. <em>Avoid the man named Lucien Grimaud.</em> But Crozier had left, and Thomas owes him nothing after being abandoned in a Portsmouth tavern all those years ago.</p><p>A crow caws outside the room’s window, and Thomas smiles.</p><p>“Of course, monsieur. Allow me to help you undress.”</p><p> “Ah,” the man says. He re-sheathes his dagger. “You <em>are</em> included in the price.”</p><p>“Oh, no, monsieur. For me, you pay extra.”       </p><p> </p><p>The sight of the man’s naked body lowering itself into the tub has Thomas’s prick straining against his breeches. The muscle ripples beneath his skin, pale beneath the dark hair that lies thick across his chest. His strength is not as defined as some men Thomas has seen in that tub, but he is lithe with a strength that has clearly developed out of need rather than practice. He keeps his eyes trained on the man’s chest, refusing to glance down at his prick before he is sat in the water. He sits with a haughty air, as if to demand that Thomas service him is an expression of dominance.</p><p>Oh, if only he knew.</p><p>He starts with an arm. Rubs it between his hands, kneads the muscles, digs his fingertips into the skin that yields beneath firm pressure. The man makes no sound, only watches, expressionless. Thomas digs deeper, massaging circles into the bicep until he hears the man’s breath hitch in his throat. It’s quiet, almost imperceptible, but Thomas has always been observant.</p><p>He dips a washcloth into the water and lathers it with soap, returning to the limb he has been cleaning so thoroughly. The soapy water drips off the man’s elbow where it is propped up on the rim of the tub and a splash of water wets Thomas’s breeches. He pays it no mind. If all goes as planned, he won’t be wearing them for much longer.</p><p>He stands, walks around the oval tub to kneel on the other side. He employs the same routine: water, hands, fingers, soap. His cock aches to be touched, but he does not touch it. He does not rut against the side of the tub like he so desperately wants to or grind a palm against the bulge in his breeches. He has been given a task, and he will see it through. He moves behind the man now, reaches around him with cupped hands and pours the water he collects over the pair of broad shoulders in front of him. As he begins to massage the tight muscles of the man’s back, he leans forward to whisper in the man’s ear.</p><p>“Are you enjoying this, monsieur<em>?</em>”</p><p>The man stares straight ahead. “To enjoy such things is man’s greatest weakness.”</p><p>Thomas digs his thumb into a knot of muscle and he can hear the sharp breath the sudden pain elicits.</p><p>“You have it wrong, monsieur<em>.</em> To admit what one wants—what one truly, deeply desires—is a mark of true bravery.”</p><p>The man snorts. “I take what I want. I have killed men to take what I want.”</p><p>Thomas leans in again, smoothing his hands down the man’s chest until they dip beneath the water, running over his pectorals and brushing over his nipples. They are erect despite the warmth of the water.</p><p>“You want me,” he whispers. “And I want you to take me.”</p><p>“I’m not a good man.”</p><p>“I don’t want a good man.” He takes a risk; the man’s weapons are on the small wooden chair, out of reach, though Thomas is certain that the stranger could kill him with his bare hands, if he chose to. He doesn’t think he will.</p><p>“I want you,” he says into the man’s neck, “Monsieur… Grimaud, is it?”</p><p>His hunch is confirmed when the man—Grimaud—twists around and catches his chin in an iron grip.</p><p>“Who are you, Thomas Jopson?”</p><p>“An innkeeper’s son, monsieur. That is all,” he says. He raises his hands in an act of submission, and Grimaud lets go.</p><p>Thomas continues. “I listen. You are not the first man of your… reputation to pass through these doors. It’s no coincidence that you’re here, I’m sure. The English Rose is well off the commonly traveled road, and the name wards off most of those who come across us. And yet the name travels among those who require discretion. My mother and I have a network of criminals, murderers, and treasure seekers at our disposal, and all the information loose lips divulge. You will not kill me, Monsieur Grimaud. My death—or my mother’s—will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”</p><p>Thomas picks up the washcloth from where he laid it over the edge of the tub and begins to wash the dust and sweat from Grimaud’s neck.</p><p>“Then what does a simple innkeeper’s son want from me?” Grimaud growls. Thomas can feel the vibrations under his hand as he drags the cloth up the tender hollow of the other man’s throat.</p><p>“The realization of a simple fantasy. I want to be adored. To be cherished. To be kept. Possessed. To service you, and be rewarded.”</p><p>Grimaud scoffs. “I’m not one for adoration.”</p><p>“And yet you yield beneath my hands.”</p><p>“And you crawl on your knees just to scrub the filth from my skin.”</p><p>“Well,” Thomas smiles, “perhaps we want the same thing.”</p><p> </p><p>His clothes are folded and placed delicately on the floor when he steps gingerly into the bathtub, careful to keep his balance on the slippery wood of the base. Grimaud’s eyes do not leave his half-hard cock, bobbing as he lowers himself to his knees.</p><p>“Let me wash your hair, monsieur,” Thomas says. He shifts forwards until he is straddling Grimaud’s lap. The knowledge that his prick is so close sends a rush of blood to Thomas’s own.</p><p>“Use your hands,” Grimaud orders. There’s a deadly edge to his words that is softened by the white-knuckled grip on the rim of the tub. Thomas cups his hands and lets the captured water trickle over the matted waves. Once Grimaud’s hair and beard are sufficiently wet, Thomas reaches for the soap. It’s too far for him to reach from his current position so he stands, revelling in the attention that Grimaud affords the curve of his backside as he bends over and reaches for the white bar. Adventurous hands nearly shock him off his feet. Grimaud has removed his arms from the rim of the tub and his hands knead and squeeze at Thomas’s arse. The corner of his mouth quirks in what may pass for a smile before he wraps a leg around Thomas’s and knocks him off balance. He crashes back into the tub and his confusion is enough for Grimaud to flip their positions. He kneels over Thomas with triumph in his eyes, bracketing his head with two powerful arms.</p><p>They stare at each other for a moment that lasts an eternity too long. Thomas lowers his head a fraction of an inch, just enough to look demurely at Grimaud above him. He breaks like an ocean wave meets a cliff, surging forwards and meeting Thomas’s mouth with teeth and tongue that ache to devour him. Thomas can take more—wants to take more—but he whimpers because he knows it is what Grimaud wants. One hand weaves into the wet tangle of hair, the other coming up to the nape of the man’s neck only to drag his nails down his spine. Thomas’s thighs part easily under Grimaud’s gentle urging. They wrap around his waist and Thomas’s hips buck as he seeks friction to ease the unrelenting throbbing of his cock. The weight of Grimaud’s body is the only thing that is keeping him from slipping underwater, and then it is gone. Thomas slips down and emerges sputtering. Grimaud has returned to leaning against the edge of the tub.</p><p>“You aren’t done washing my hair yet, <em>chéri</em>.”</p><p>The use of the pet name makes him whimper.</p><p>“Please, monsieur,” he whines, nuzzling his clean-shaven cheek against the hair on Grimaud’s chest. He makes no move to touch himself, nor will he.</p><p>Grimaud lifts his chin with a finger. “You said you wanted to serve me, pet. Serve me well and you will have your reward.”</p><p>Thomas cannot speak through the surge of arousal. <em>Oh yes,</em> he thinks through the haze, <em>I have chosen well.</em></p><p>He shuffles closer on his knees, searching for the bar of soap that fell into the water when he was tripped. His hand brushes over the unmistakable hardness of Grimaud’s cock; Grimaud smirks and Thomas leans in to taste the curve of his lips. He is surprised that Grimaud allows it, allows Thomas to lick the corner of his mouth, press a soft kiss to the crook of his lips.</p><p>“Is this what you’re looking for, <em>chéri</em>?” He holds the bar of soap just out of reach.</p><p>“Yes, monsieur. Thank you.” Grimaud presses it into his hand and nods at him to continue.</p><p>Thomas rubs the soap through the sodden waves. He lathers it with one hand while the other places the soap on top of the pile of dry washcloths on the floor, out of Grimaud’s reach. He runs both hands through the man’s waves of dark hair, lathering the soap and continuing with his abandoned massage. He scratches at Grimaud’s scalp, feels an inordinate amount of pride when his eyes flutter shut under the ministrations of Thomas’s fingers. When the bubbles begin to dissipate, Thomas washes the soap from his head, handful at a time. When he sits back on his haunches to admire his work, Grimaud’s hand slips beneath the water. His hand finds Thomas’s cock, squeezes.</p><p>“How long have you been this hard, pet?” The way he purrs the words, dripping with false concern, makes Thomas squirm beneath his hand.</p><p>“Ah,” he pants, bracing himself against the narrow sides of the bathtub. “Ah, since I helped you into the bath, Monsieur Grimaud.”</p><p>Grimaud rewards him with a slow stroke from the base of his cock to the tip, where his thumb circles the head before his hand loosens and returns to the base.</p><p>“Please,” Thomas whimpers, falling forward to rest his forehead on Grimaud’s shoulder. “I’ve done well, haven’t I?”</p><p>“Yes,” Grimaud says, lifting a leg out of the water to prop it up on the edge of the tub, “but you’re only half done.”</p><p>Thomas moans, the denial equal parts torture and bliss. He leans back once more, and begins to scrub Grimaud’s leg with the soapy cloth. He traces the scars that line and dot his leg with his fingers. There is one that cut deep and healed into an irregular, puckered line near the inside of his ankle. Thomas raises it to his lips and traces his tongue along the raised scar. He returns the leg to the water, and urges Grimaud’s other leg up to scrub it as clean as the other. When he is finished, he presses a kiss to the knee and Grimaud lowers it, shifting so his bare foot is pressed to Thomas’s groin.</p><p>“Well done,” he says, pressing his foot against Thomas’s cock. “Go on, then. Take your reward.”</p><p>Thomas wastes no time being coy, grabbing onto Grimaud’s calf for leverage as he rubs himself shamelessly against the sole of the mercenary’s foot. The calluses drag against his foreskin. Thomas looks down through the soapy skin on the water and watches as he wantonly takes what pleasure he is being given. Grimaud curls his toes-- the head of Thomas’s cock brushes against the sharp scrape of nails, and he with one more thrust he is done, orgasm blinding him as his arms reach for purchase and Grimaud presses his foot harder against his cock.</p><p>When his orgasm has washed away the blinding haze of lust, he is lying in Grimaud’s arms with his head carefully held out of the lukewarm bathwater.</p><p>“Good boy,” Grimaud growls in his ear.</p><p>Thomas presses a lazy kiss to the closest skin within reach. “I can be better,” he offers, and without a word, Grimaud slides his hands to cup Thomas’s backside and lifts them both out of the water.</p><p> </p><p>Thomas yelps when his back hits the mattress with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. His next breath is stolen by a biting kiss that is as sensual as it is violent. He squirms in an attempt to simulate resistance as Grimaud bites into his lower lip. His moan betrays him, and Grimaud pulls back, a laugh on his lips.</p><p>“Oh, my poor boy. Is this what you’ve wanted all along? Someone to play rough with you? To bite you, mark you, leave bruises so dark that you will remember my hands on you long after I’m gone?”</p><p>Thomas can’t help it—he laughs, leans up to nip at Grimaud’s ear before pulling him back down for another blood-tinged kiss.</p><p>“I’ve had better,” Thomas says.</p><p>It has the desired effect—Grimaud makes an unhappy sound and bodily flips Thomas over. He kneels over him, pinning his hips to the bed, rubs his hard prick against the cleft in Thomas’s arse. Thomas wonders if he’s going to bugger him like this, but no: the other man leans over him, takes an earlobe between his teeth and tugs.</p><p>“You’ll never want another man after me,” he whispers, and a delighted shudder shoots from Thomas’s head, down his spine, and awakens his dormant prick. Grimaud’s hot breath moves from ear to neck, and Thomas bares it willingly.</p><p>“Please,” he breathes.</p><p>It hurts when Grimaud bites down, teeth sharp enough to draw blood, but the hot tongue lapping up the beads of blood is soothing, and Thomas wants more.</p><p>“Again.”</p><p>The huff of breath against his neck could be a laugh, but Thomas welcomes it.</p><p>Teeth close on his skin again, this time closer to the shoulder. The skin there is tougher so Grimaud bites harder, digs his teeth in deeper, and Thomas’s hips buck into the mattress below him.</p><p>The bites sting as the weight on top of him shifts and strong hands grip his hips. Thomas can feel lips against his skin as kisses—softer than they have any right to be—are pressed down the curve of his spine. The final kiss to his tailbone has him squirming against the mattress, grinding his cock against the rough blankets. Deft fingers grip Thomas’s backside, lift him to his knees. Then, Grimaud’s mouth is back on him, biting into the flesh beneath his hands, thumbs digging into the dimples that lie above the curve of his arse. Thomas cannot help the whimper that escapes him. He hasn’t felt this good in so long. Grimaud believes he is in control, that Thomas is yielding to him, and yet Thomas is the one who is being pleasured; he basks in the adoration Grimaud bestows upon his body.</p><p>A thumb slides down his crease to rub at his hole. Thomas pushes himself back against Grimaud’s hand, making a show of himself by arching his back and looking back over his shoulder.</p><p>“There’s lamp oil in the cabinet,” he says. His voice comes out rough and low, and the corner of Grimaud’s mouth twitches.</p><p>“You had better go get it, <em>chéri</em>.” He lowers his head, wraps his arms around Thomas’s thighs, and licks a wet stripe over Thomas’s hole.</p><p>“<em>Oh,</em>” he gasps. He thinks of all the men he has been with, the men who said they loved him, who had never thought to do this. To touch him so intimately with a hot, wet tongue…</p><p>“I thought you’d like this,” Grimaud breathes against his hole. “You want everything I give you.”</p><p>“Yes,” Thomas gasps.</p><p>Grimaud lifts a hand, brings it down hard over Thomas’s arse. The smack echoes off the stone walls.</p><p>“Then you had better go get that lamp oil.” His tone is dark, menacing. “Don’t worry, <em>chéri. </em>I’ll follow.”</p><p>Thomas lifts himself onto all fours and hesitantly crawls forwards. The cabinet is next to the bed, close enough that he should be able to reach it with only a few movements. His movement is cut off. Grimaud’s grip around his thighs tightens, and he’s pulled back against an insistent tongue that licks and prods against his entrance.</p><p>He can see now that it’s a game, and it’s one he’s not keen on winning. He gives it a moment, letting Grimaud withdraw and bite softly at the soft spot between arse and thigh, and Thomas takes his opportunity. He scrambles forwards on his hands and knees but Grimaud is too fast, stopping him before he reaches the edge of the bed. He’s closer towards the cabinet than he was before—Grimaud must have moved forwards with him. His tongue is back against his hole, though, and Thomas drops to his elbows for leverage as he pushes back against the face buried between his cheeks. A finger works its way in beside Grimaud’s tongue, and Thomas yields easily to the intrusion. His hole is slick with spit and he fucks himself slowly on the finger inside him.</p><p>“You should hurry up, pet,” Grimaud growls. “I’m growing impatient.”</p><p>With an exasperated groan, Thomas pulls himself off the finger and leans over the side of the bed, opens the cabinet, and pulls out the lamp oil. He holds it up, triumphant.</p><p>Grimaud’s eyes are shining like polished onyx. “Good boy,” he praises, beckoning Thomas closer. He pounces on him, wrapping him in a hug and they tumble sideways. The bed frame creaks under their weight. Grimaud is looking at him with more than just unbridled lust. There’s a curiosity in his eyes, but there will be time for that later. Right now, Thomas slides down the length of the mercenary’s body until he’s level with his cock. He wastes no time, immediately sucking the head into his mouth. It’s big, but not the biggest he’s had. Big enough to fill his mouth beautifully without choking him. Big enough that he risks getting addicted to the stretch and burn of it inside him.</p><p>Thomas sucks again before bobbing his head, taking Grimaud’s cock deeper and deeper into his mouth each time. He works his tongue along the underside as he pulls back, tongues at the slit, sucks at the head. He keeps going until Grimaud’s cock is flushed and stands against his belly when Thomas lets it go. He looks up to where Grimaud rests against the headboard, pupils dilated against the blackness of his eyes and mouth open, panting. Thomas has done a good job. He can do better.</p><p>“Please, monsieur<em>,</em> will you let me ride you? I want you to watch me fuck myself on your beautiful cock.”</p><p>Grimaud says nothing. He gestures at his prick. <em>Go ahead,</em> it means. He looks uncomfortable and tense as he watches Thomas slick his cock with oil. He’s out of his element, Thomas realizes, and wonders if he’s ever fucked anyone like this before. Grimaud doesn’t close his eyes like most men when Thomas lifts himself up and circles his hips to find the best position. He keeps them fixed on Thomas as he sinks down, one hand braced on Grimaud’s hip and the other guiding his cock into his own slicked up hole. Thomas squirms and pants, but he cannot tell if it’s because of the hard cock breaching him or the way those dark eyes watch his every move. He circles his hips experimentally and works himself down until all of Grimaud’s cock is sheathed inside him.</p><p>It fills him completely. Thomas adores it.</p><p>He takes a moment to shift his hips, enjoying the feeling of being filled, before beginning to roll them properly. He lifts himself up to his knees and braces himself on Grimaud’s thighs. He’s leaning back now, body on full display as he begins to raise and lower himself slowly. Grimaud’s hands slowly come to rest on his hips. He squeezes, and Thomas inhales sharply as he comes down a little too fast and Grimaud’s cock reaches impossibly deep. The weight of Grimaud’s gaze is too much, and Thomas closes his eyes and looks away. The shift causes one of the punctures from the other man’s teeth to reopen; he can feel his neck start to bleed again.</p><p>Grimaud is impossibly hard inside him yet he remains still and watches. At last, Thomas’s quivering thighs give way and he falls forward, the strength in his arms the only thing keeping him from collapsing over the mercenary’s chest. He rocks his hips and gasps when the change in position makes stars burst in front of his eyes.</p><p>“<em>More</em>,” he gasps. “Please, please, I need more, I need <em>you</em>.” He squeezes his eyes shut, letting the moisture well up in the corners and trickle down his cheeks. It’s then that Grimaud flips them, taking a moment to lap up the tears that trickle down Thomas’s cheeks before sliding back into him and beginning to fuck him, <em>hard.</em></p><p>Thomas is a mess of pleasure. He is vaguely aware of his legs wrapping around lithe hips and his hands above his head, as if they were pinned against the mattress. But Grimaud’s hands are supporting him where he kneels over Thomas, shielding his body from the chill that is beginning to seep into the room. He can feel the heat radiating off Grimaud’s skin, the sweat that gathers above his collarbone and on his forehead as he grunts and shifts Thomas’s legs up so he can fuck him deeper.</p><p>Each thrust brings with it that sharp spark of pleasure. It feels so good that Thomas is almost nauseous from overstimulation, but he does not want to stop. He never wants to stop.</p><p>“It’s so good,” he gasps. “You feel so good, Monsieur Grimaud. Please, make me yours. I want to be yours.” He’s babbling, he knows, and he doesn’t expect Grimaud to answer him.</p><p>“No man will ever touch you again,” Grimaud growls. He leans in close to bite at Thomas’s earlobe. “Only me. You’re mine now.”</p><p>Grimaud’s thrusts slow, taking time to pull most of the way out before slamming back into him. Thomas’s back arches as he cries out.</p><p>“Yes, yes, only you. I’ll—<em>ah—</em>I’ll only think of you when I—<em>ah</em>-- touch myself.”</p><p>Grimaud thrusts all the way in and stops, letting Thomas hold his cock inside him. He lifts a hand from the bed, uses it to raise Thomas’s chin. They stare at each other for a long moment before Thomas breaks and cranes his neck for a kiss. Grimaud kisses back. The clash of teeth never comes—he kisses him properly, like a lover. His lips are chapped but soft and his tongue is hot when it pushes into Thomas’s mouth. He breaks the kiss, and Thomas aches for it, but he returns to fucking him with a passion.</p><p>It’s hard and fast, and it only takes a few strokes of Grimaud’s fist around his cock until Thomas is coming again, spurting hot all over his belly. It is only seconds later when Grimaud tenses, hips stuttering where they meet Thomas’s body and he finally lets his eyes fall shut, head tipped back and, with a harsh exhale, he comes.</p><p>Thomas leaves his legs where Grimaud drops them. He doubts he can move much right now. The ache in his hips is beginning to set in and he’s exhausted, but he’s far too giddy to sleep. He’s only a little bit surprised when Grimaud drops down next to him, head propped up on an elbow and watching him once again.</p><p>“I can warm your bed tonight if you like,” he says.</p><p>“You will,” Grimaud answers. “I’m not done with you yet.” Thomas hums his consent and makes to roll into the inviting heat of Grimaud’s body, but the other man has gotten out of bed. Then he is lifting Thomas with an arm under his knees and behind his back.</p><p>“Into the bath with you, <em>chéri.”</em></p><p>Thomas grimaces when he is lowered into the water. It has grown cold from the evening air, but Grimaud does not seem to notice when he slides into the tub behind him. He wets a washcloth and smoothes it over Thomas’s chest, down beneath the surface of the water where Thomas’s seed stained his belly, between his legs where the oil and Grimaud’s spend mixed within him.</p><p>“Why are you being so kind to me?” Thomas asks suddenly. Grimaud’s touch is gentle against his skin, and his lips are soft when they kiss Thomas’s neck.</p><p>“I take care of what is mine,” he says simply.</p><p>When Thomas has been bathed, Grimaud lifts him out of the water and wraps him in a blanket before sliding naked into bed next to him.</p><p>“I’d like to tell you something,” Thomas says. He’s grown sleepy from the exertion and the adrenaline, but he has one last part to his plan, and it must be played now.</p><p>Grimaud allows him to pillow his head on his shoulder. “I was wondering when you would reveal your secrets, Thomas Jopson.”</p><p>Thomas stretches languidly. He taps Grimaud on the lower lip, cocky.</p><p>“I thought I would enjoy myself first. Now, what would you say if I suggested a deal?”</p><p>Grimaud snorts. “What sort of deal?”</p><p>“Let me provide an example: in a week’s time, a caravan from the Erebus Shipping Company will be travelling from Marseille to deliver its cargo in Burgundy. It will be filled with tobacco, gunpowder, and gold. In ten days, the caravan will be locked overnight in my stables while its escort rests here. Now, Monsieur Grimaud, what would you do with that information?”</p><p>Grimaud’s eyes glitter in the dying light of sunset. “I would seize that opportunity.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>“And how do you come by this information, <em>chéri</em>?”</p><p>“I was a sailor, once. A fine sailor, though better suited to the task of warming my lieutenant’s bed on shore. We had a plan. Retire from the merchant navy and seek passage to the New World where it’s always warm. Nassau. A pirate town, where there are fortunes to be made. In the days leading up to our departure, I fell ill. I woke up in our bed above a tavern in Portsmouth with nothing but a small bag of coins, a few days’ worth of bread, and an empty room. He left me alone to die, yet still writes me, saying he’ll come back for me but in the meantime, do I mind keeping his shipments safe as they travel through France?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             </p><p>“So you thought you would seduce me for revenge.”</p><p>“Has it worked?”</p><p>Grimaud laughs. If Thomas wasn’t certain that he had a deal, he would be terrified.</p><p>“You are dangerous, aren’t you?”</p><p>Thomas shifts, wrapping an arm around Grimaud’s far shoulder. “Yes, Monsieur Grimaud,” he says. He rests his head on the scarred chest below him and throws a leg over Grimaud’s hips. His master asked for a warm bed, and Thomas is happy to oblige him. He doesn’t expect an arm to wrap around him in turn, a hand stroking up and down his back in a soothing rhythm.</p><p>“What do I give you in return?” Grimaud asks, just as Thomas is beginning to nod off to sleep against his chest.</p><p>“When you’re done with France, take me away. Not tomorrow, not next year. Just… someday. It doesn’t matter where, just take me with you.”</p><p>Grimaud hums. “I hear there are fortunes to be made in Nassau. We could run a certain shipping company out of business.”</p><p>Thomas laughs, full of the mirth that only comes through an anticipation of revenge. He knows better than to trust men like Grimaud, but with his head pressed against Grimaud’s chest, the <em>thump thump</em> in the mercenary’s chest reminds him that he is the only one in all of France who has heard Lucien Grimaud’s heartbeat and will live to see tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>At some point in the night while Thomas slept, Grimaud had retrieved his weapons from the pile of clothing left in the corner of the room and placed them on the floor next to the bed. He hadn’t drawn the curtains, however, so Thomas wakes up with the sun as it rises above the trees on the horizon. He wakes slow, languid. He shifts, moaning softly as one does after a day of heavy labour. And labour he did, he thinks, touching the scabs and welts that formed overnight. It’s a good feeling—heady, and powerful. He makes to roll over, given that he can’t feel a presence behind him, but he looks behind him first.</p><p>Grimaud sleeps on his back, hands resting on his belly. His thin dagger is beside him, resting on the floor within an arms’ reach. Even in sleep he looks serious, lips curling down into a perpetual sneer, but he has a pink flush to his cheeks that Thomas had only seen rise when Thomas’s mouth was on his cock.</p><p>What a sight that was! The notorious Lucien Grimaud, the one man Thomas had been warned to stay away from, head tipped back against the pillows and breathing through ragged, panting breaths as Thomas brought him pleasure.</p><p>Perhaps he could wring that pleasure from him again. A parting gift, or an act of good will between them. Cementing a mutually beneficial partnership before Grimaud leaves with Thomas’s future in his hands but his wallet in Thomas’s care.</p><p>He eyes the dagger on the ground next to his bedmate. The danger spurs him on and he touches himself, drags a thumb up and down the softness of his cock until it begins to fill. Thomas lifts the blanket that covers them, peeling it back slowly to reveal both of their nakedness. Grimaud’s legs are too close for him to kneel between, so he slides down the bed until he is in the same position he was before: eye level with the thick, heavy cock that filled him so beautifully. It’s soft now, gentle and velvet-soft as he nuzzles it with his cheek before licking at the head. He wants Grimaud to wake up with an achingly hard prick in the back of Thomas’s throat—he rolls his tongue over the head, again and again, until it starts to harden and Grimaud is panting in his sleep. Thomas hums, sliding his lips down the length and back up again, never pulling off. He breathes through his nose in long, steady breaths as he pushes Grimaud’s cock deeper into his mouth, eyes losing focus as it butts against the back of his throat.</p><p>A hand in his hair pulls him back. A thin strand of saliva connects Thomas’s lips to the cock in front of him, but Grimaud isn’t looking at that. He is looking at <em>him</em>. There is no dagger at his throat, no look of surprise or anger. There is just Grimaud, flushed and beautiful, holding him by the hair and looking at him like he’s worth all the treasure in the King’s possession.</p><p>“Good morning,” Thomas says. The string connecting him mouth to Grimaud’s spit-shiny cock breaks, and half of it falls against Thomas’s chin. He wipes it off with the back of a hand. “May I continue, monsieur?”</p><p>Grimaud nods, smoothes Thomas’s hair down where he ruffled it. Thomas returns to sucking Grimaud’s cock, sliding his mouth up and down, licking at the underside. A hand comes to rest on the back of his head. He expects to be pushed, or at least directed, but instead it strokes softly at the nape of his neck.</p><p>It isn’t any less surprising when Grimaud rasps, “Come here,” and pulls Thomas’s hips towards him until he’s got his mouth on Grimaud’s cock and his arse in his face. He tugs at Thomas’s cock a few times before pulling it back and mouthing at it, from tip to base and then further back. Thomas feels the warmth of his breath over his sac before he takes it in his mouth, rolling each globe in his mouth before releasing them. Thomas sucks on the head of Grimaud’s cock like he was born for it, if only to keep him from crying out in pleasure. A slick finger presses at his entrance, still stretched and sore from the previous night’s activities. Grimaud tugs him backwards to better take his cock into his mouth. Thomas can’t contain it this time: he whimpers, and his forehead drops against Grimaud’s stomach.</p><p>A hard slap on his arse jolts him up. The meaning is clear, and Thomas extends his tongue, reaching for Grimaud’s prick. He can’t find the will to concentrate, not when there’s a finger thrusting into him and a hot mouth wrapped around his straining erection. The pleasure is going to his head, but each time he gives into his own pleasure and thrusts back against Grimaud’s hand and into his mouth, he is punished with a slap against a thigh or a hip.</p><p>It makes him ache for more. But no—he’s a good boy, he wants to be good for Monsieur Grimaud, so he takes his cock deeper, faster into his mouth and touches his balls with firm fingers, rubbing circles into the skin like he did to the rest of Grimaud’s body as he bathed him.</p><p>There are two fingers sliding in and out of him now, calloused fingers rubbing rough against his hole. Thomas is moaning around Grimaud’s cock, one sharp stab of pleasure bleeding into the next as he fucks himself between Grimaud’s cock and fingers. His arms shake where he kneels on all fours. He lowers himself to his elbows, lowering his mouth halfway down the prick that fills it, and bobs his head from there, taking it deeper and drawing back less so the head stays rubbing against his palette as he licks and sucks.</p><p>Grimaud groans, then. Thomas can feel it more than hear it—the vibrations travel up his cock, sending a fresh wave of arousal through him. It’s quiet, or else the blood that pounds in his head obscures the sound.</p><p>Again. The vibrations bring him closer to the edge, but it’s the thought that it’s <em>him</em>, Thomas Jopson, an innkeeper’s son, who is the one to make Grimaud lose control is what pushes him over the edge. He gasps, and comes.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t speak much as they clean up and Grimaud packs his bag. Thomas bails out the tub, pausing with each bucket to look at the sky. Clouds are blowing in from the east. It will rain later. He says as much.</p><p>“Don’t mind the rain,” Grimaud says. “Keeps the dust down.”</p><p>Thomas goes to retrieve his cloak from where it hangs in the kitchen, and carries it up the stairs. Grimaud is packed. His bag sits on the bed. Spots of come and blood dot the sheets. He’ll wash them later, and not regret a single moment as he scrubs at the stubborn stains.</p><p>“Here,” Thomas says, gesturing with the cloak, “let me.”</p><p>Grimaud bows his head and lets Thomas drape the travelling cloak around his shoulders, fastening it with deft fingers that linger over his neck.</p><p>“There we are, monsieur.” Thomas chances a small smile as he brushes the cloak flat against Grimaud’s shoulders.</p><p>“No man will touch you while I am away,” Grimaud says quietly. His dark eyes seem to absorb the light that touches his skin.</p><p>“No, monsieur.”</p><p>“I will return before the bruises fade.”</p><p>“Yes, monsieur.”</p><p>“You are mine, understand?”</p><p>Thomas doesn’t reply. He takes Grimaud’s hands in his and leans in to kiss him, opening his mouth and letting Grimaud take what he wants. As his mouth is tongued and tasted, Thomas slides one of the heavy gold rings that adorn Grimaud’s fingers off. He slides it onto his own finger and pulls back, triumphant.</p><p>He raises the finger with the ring to trace the line of Grimaud’s mouth.</p><p>“I’ll think only of you when I touch myself,” he whispers. Grimaud huffs. It might be a laugh, and the twitch of his lips might be a smile.</p><p>“I’ll be back for you, Thomas Jopson.”</p><p> </p><p>He rides away on his dark Andalusian without a backwards glance. Thomas stands beside his mother in the entranceway, aware that his shirt does nothing to cover the bite marks and hickeys that cover his neck and collarbones.</p><p>“Oh, Thomas,” she says sadly. “You really must stop falling in love with every handsome man that passes through.”</p><p>Thomas looks up at the sky. The clouds are overhead, blocking out the sun that woke him. Soon it will rain.</p><p>“This one will be back,” he says, eyes dropping back to the small cloud of dust in the distance. He twists the ring on his finger. “He’ll be back for me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: and then nothing bad happened and they moved to Nassau to rip off pirates and Jopson's ex, who happens to look an awful lot like Grimaud.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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